


Gesture of Affliction

by RedSavant



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, M/M, Pervasive Language, Xeno, tentabulge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSavant/pseuds/RedSavant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sollux's job has been stressing him out recently, and it's finally gotten so bad that even Eridan notices.  </p><p>A quick and dirty blackrom piece written in about ten hours to cheer up a friend.</p><p>This piece uses tentabulge designs by Tumblr user Xenosexual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gesture of Affliction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jabberwocky (Sisterwives)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sisterwives/gifts).



> This story contains explicit sexual acts, as well as explicit descriptions of alien genitalia. If any of the above offends you, please do not read further. All characters depicted in this work are eighteen years old or older.

**== > Eridan: Field quasi-question.**

 

“You did it, didn’t you.”  It’s not a question, and you both know the answer well enough.   You can feel the back of the couch depress as he puts his hands onto it, resting his scrawny bony wrists on the cushion and lacing his skeletal fingers together like he knows he’ll do something he regrets if he doesn’t.  He does that a lot nowadays; work has been stressful, from the little he mentions it over dinner (two ways properly cut and properly enjoyed, the last scarfed as though by an animal of some sort in five minutes or less before he vanishes back to the fishbelly glow in his alcove), and you know he hasn’t been sleeping well.  More times than you bother to count the past month you’ve woken up, pulled your face out of her hair, and rolled over to see him sitting in the same clothes and with the same slack expression, moving only his fingers, the damned lights blinking in time with his typing.  After almost five years together, you like to think you can understand him pretty well, if you say so yourself (Fef sure as hell won’t say it for you), and you’ve decided that he’s probably not doing quite so well.  This reaction right here only proves your point for you.

You uncross your legs, taking your time, feeling the denim stretch against your knees as you put your other leg over.  (You moved because you were losing circulation, goddamn skinny jeans, but the motion – and the perceived stalling – will piss him off more.)  “Sorry, did wwhat?” you ask innocently, stretching your arms out on the couch.  Your upper arm brushes his knuckles and he jerks back as though you stung him.  You allow yourself a smug little smirk.  All according to plan so far.  “Oh, no,” you gasp theatrically, putting your hands to your cheeks as he circles around the couch.  “I didn’t throww out your collection a dumb human child toys wwhen I wwas cleanin’ up your disgustin’ lowwblood hovvel, did I?  Oh, I’m _so_ sorry, Sol.  They must’vve gotten mixed up wwith the rest a the trash.” 

He folds his arms (holy shit, his elbows look like harpoons, has he lost that much weight?) and pulls his lips back tight, baring his fangs.  “My figures are fine, fishfuck,” he snarls, well-chewed nails digging into his upper arm below the slightly ratty edge of his sleeve.  “I know it’s hard, but try to act like you have higher brain function for once and answer my goddamn question.  Did you or did you not touch my shit after I explicitly told you and FF to never, _ever_ , touch my shit?”  He takes a deep breath and lets it out shakily.  You can’t see his eyes behind his stupid shades, but the bags under them are visible below the lenses.  The bruiselike marks stand out starkly against the sickly ashen grey of his skin; he looks like shit warmed over.  Your relationship’s stayed pretty solidly on the (admittedly pinkish) black side of things over the years, Fef’s knowing smirks aside, but you have to admit, your vascular bladder gives a little squeeze as you realize just how upset he is.  Maybe you’ve made a mistake?  You sigh.

“Look, Sol,” you begin, sitting forward.  “I think you’re takin’ this a little bit seriously-” suddenly his hand is twisted in your shirt and you’re being pulled forward.  He staggers a little with the effort, but you’re too surprised to resist, and his face is right next to yours in a split second.

“Answer.  My fucking.  Question,” he hisses, his voice poisonously low.  His breath smells like your mouth tastes after Bar Night with Kar and Egbert, and you wrinkle your nose.

“An’ wwhat if I say I did, Sol?  Wwhat’re you gonna do then, hm?” you ask, just as quietly.  Your hand is on his chest (even after this long, you can’t get over how warm his skin is), pressing him back slightly, and you run it across his body to his side, trailing your fingers against him.  He shivers – you can feel it – and leans forward, putting a knee up on the couch as he leans into you.

“You put magnets on my hard drive,” he whispers, enunciating very clearly.  He’s close enough that you can almost see his eyes through his glasses, and he does not look happy.  Hot damn.  “Alphabet thermal hull magnets that spelled out ‘fuck you’.”  He leans in suddenly, mashing his lips against yours.  You close your eyes as your glasses clatter together and he forces his tongue into your mouth; he lets your shirt fall loose and crumpled from his hand as his fingers wrap around your throat, just barely avoiding digging into your gills.  The pressure transmits directly to your crotch, and you can’t help but suck in a breath at the sensation.  Annoyance flashes across his face and he bites your lip; you respond in kind, your sharp teeth doing a better job than his pathetic reconstructed lowblood fangs.  He pulls away, drops of yellow mixed with purple spattering your chest, and presses his forehead to yours.  “And that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”  He flashes you a quick and ugly grin before he moves back in.

The next few minutes pass in a haze of heat and touch; your hands are at his shoulders, pushing a just-so amount so that his pathetic lowblood musculature can just barely “overpower” you, at his chest, his neck, his face.  There’s yellow under your nails and in your mouth by this point; it drips down your chin from the cut you opened in his lip on the first pass, soaking into your shirt with a slight taint of purple.  Your knee is grinding into his body; he grunts into the crook of your neck and reciprocates, his hips giving little thrusts as he seeks your kneecap with the heat behind his bone bulge.  He’s moving shakily, a little too quickly, and it doesn’t surprise you at all that you can already feel his bulges pushing against your thigh through his cargo pants.

“Feelin’ desperate, huh, Sol?” you ask, somewhat breathlessly.  The back of your hand is smeared light brown when you swipe it across your lip, and you wipe it off on Sollux’s shirt.  He slaps your hand away and pulls the stained shirt off, then grinds his hand into your crotch.  Your bulge surges against the pressure, straining against the fabric of your jeans; it’s not fully extruded by a long shot, but the tip is out, and he rolls it around with his hand.  You have to bite your lip, and he smirks.  The effect is ruined somewhat by the color high in his cheeks, though.

“Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I jacked off, ED?” he asks, his tone almost conversational.  He runs a hand down your chest, then back up under your shirt, scoring your skin with the jagged edge of one nail.  His bulge writhes against you.  “Three weeks.  I’ve been keeping track.”  He leans in, grinding your bulge against your bone bulge with his hand, wrapping his fingers around you as well as he can through the fabric.  “I spend fifteen hours a day sitting in my shitty chair staring at this fucking program and, as if I needed more proof that there’s no such thing as a just god, I get to listen to you fucking FF fifteen feet away from me practically every night.”  He gives your tip a squeeze, and you can’t help but grunt.   “Don’t you dare talk to me about desperate, asshole.”  He’s in close again, whispering, his breath tickling your lips.  You lean forward a bit to kiss him, but he turns aside.  He runs a hand down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your jawline surprisingly tenderly.  “You’ll find out soon enough.”  As soon as his fingers reach your chin, he grabs your bottom lips and tugs on it, hard.  Yeah, that’s more like it.

“Oww, wwhat the fuck, Sol,” you hiss, bringing your hands to your mouth.  He immediately grabs at your crotch, pulling your jeans open and yanking your boxers down around your bone bulge.  Your bulge, finally free of the pressure, extrudes at least six inches at once; it’s slick with clear-purple fluid, and drops go flying as your bulge thrashes in the shock of cool air.  Sollux grabs the bottom of your shirt and yanks it up over your elbows, trapping your arms and effectively blinding you; you struggle, but your horns are caught in the fabric.  “Sol, I can’t-” you manage to get out, before you feel a strange sensation on your stomach.  There’s something warm and soft moving across your skin, and then suddenly, a nip that makes you twitch. 

“That’s the point, genius,” Sollux replies from the level of your belt buckle.  His tongue slides across you again; you can feel it curve lightly as he cleans up a drop of fluid.  Your bulge thrashes into the crook of his neck and he holds it in place with one hand, almost nuzzling it as he moves against you.  “Fuck, ED, calm down,” he mutters, stroking the section of your length pressed against his cheek.  “If you pail in my hair I swear to god I’ll skullfuck you to death.”

You’re glad you have a shirt over your face, because that last bit of vulgarity has you blazing purple – and the scraping of his teeth against your ribs isn’t helping.  “Cod, Sol,” you say, shifting underneath his ministrations.  “Wwe’re barely out a foreplay yet.”  He’s clambered off you to the side, and his other hand is digging lines down your spine; he slaps you in the back as your hips surge upwards and your bulge twines around one of his horns.  “Ah-”

“What did I just say, ED?” he snarls, pulling your bulge free.  It writhes in his warm grip and he strokes it savagely, nipping at the edges of your hipbones.  “You dripped your fucking slime down the side of my face.”  You finally manage to get the shirt off over your horns – it takes your glasses with it, but what the hell – and sure enough, the side of Sollux’s face is painted pale purple.  He glowers at you, like it’s your fault he’s attempting to wrangle your bulge, and wipes at it with his hand.  It drips in strings across your stomach as he forces his fingers into your mouth.  “Clean this shit off.”

You give him a look, and he nods impatiently, pulling his fingers free from your mouth with a small pop and a scratch or two from your teeth.  Suddenly you’re above him, kneeling like him on the couch, your hand on his face.  “Wwith pleasure,” you murmur, leaning into him.  For a split second he actually looks flustered, but he recovers quickly as you change course… only to lose it again as you open your mouth and lick gently along his jawline.  It’s a familiar taste, very familiar – even the noxious undertone of Captor taste like it belongs nowadays.  He shifts on the couch as you clean his face, seemingly unsure of what to do next.  His face is burning hot.  Time to go back on the offensive.

He tenses as you push him back into the couch, your legs on either side of his.  You bend his neck back as far as you can, licking from his collarbone up; you’ve given up on cleaning, and it feels like he has too, if the insistent pushing against your hand through his pants is any indication.  You bite down lightly on his neck and he sucks in a breath; your hand slips into his pants and shorts with almost no resistance until you discover his bulges, twining around each other and lashing out in the limited space they have.  They’ve both gone down one pant leg, and you snag the base of his bulge and pull them out, being sure to give both halves a proper rub.  Sollux’s breath puffs into your hair, and you grin.

“You’re wwearin’ too many clothes,” you hiss, hooking the belt loops of his pants and pulling down.  He’s so skinny that you don’t even have to unbutton them; they form a puddle around his knees, and his boxers follow next.  His body is laid out in a sort of arc in front of you now; he’s way, way too skinny.  You can count his ribs, and his hipbones are practically sawblades; he hasn’t been taking care of himself, and you hadn’t noticed.  The thought gives you that weird pang again, until it’s distracted by the slap of one of his demibulges against your own length.  Instantly, your long and (if you say so yourself) majestic member is wrapped up completely in Sollux’s bulges, twisting and sliding against his paired lengths and rapidly growing slicker with his fluid.  He’s drenched – even his nook is soaked, you notice.  He has his eyes closed and his teeth grit against the motions of your bulge; every time it corkscrews against him, he shudders. 

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” you ask, sliding a hand down his stomach and past his bone bulge.  Your fingers slip into him easily and he stiffens against your body, his hips instinctively thrusting almost directly into yours with your proximity.  You stroke his soft inner walls, pressing teasingly into his shame globes, and are rewarded with a growl of frustration and a bite into your shoulder. 

“You want me to fucking beg?” he hisses, pressing against your fingers.  Your breath hitches as the motion pulls against your bulge, but you quickly gain back the advantage.  You run your hand down his length from the base, disentangling yourself from him; his demibulges twine desperately around your fingers, and you snort. 

“Fuckin’ pathetic,” you sniff.  “Gettin’ this excited ovver nothin’.”  You squeeze his bulges together, rolling them in your palm, and he makes a strangled sort of noise.  “That’s beggin’ enough for me, lowwblood scum.”  You push him back into the couch, leaning into him nose to nose, and grin, making sure your teeth are exposed.  “Bite the fuckin’ pillow.”  He has all of a second to frown before you ram your bulge up into him, the slippery length sliding with almost no resistance into his soaked nook.  He cries out as you enter him nearly to your full length, a gush of yellow fluid spurting around your width and puddling on the couch cushion before slowly starting to soak into the fabric.  You start working your hips immediately, thrusting up into him; his eyes are closed and his head thrown back.  You nibble on his collarbone, first gently, then leaving cuts.  His bulges are still twined around your hand, and you pump them as well as you can, usually settling for rubbing them against his stomach with your own body. 

“Ah, fuck,” he grunts, digging his fingers into your shoulders.  “Fuck, fuck, ED, I fucking hate you…” He barely sounds conscious, just repeating the words in time with the slapping of your flesh into his.  He’s hot inside, much hotter than Fef, but not as tight, and you take the opportunity to wriggle around inside him, writhing against the silk-soft inner walls of his nook.  He lets out a strangled sound as the pores along his length begin to shimmer with liquid, spilling his mustard-colored seed between your fingers; more begins to drip down your length and your bone bulge as it begins to flow from his nook.  “Fuck, ED, fuck, fuck, stop, I can’t – ugh, _fuck_ …” His breath hitches and he lets out a shuddering grunt as he explodes.  The amount of fluid dripping from him doubles in a gush; hot, thick liquid hits you in the chin as it shoots up between your bodies.  Sollux collapses back against the couch, groaning, as the fucking Falls of Melvas continues to stream from his body in slow, lazy spurts that never seem to stop.  They slowly begin to lose their intensity around – you count – number fifteen, which is far more than enough to have painted you, him and most of the surrounding area yellow.  His bulges lay flaccid against your stomach in a puddle of fluid; they retract as you watch, sliding back into his body as he manages, shakily, to sit up.

“Sorry, hon, I swear that’s never happened to me before,” he says, mocking even through his heavy breathing.  He pats your cheek twice, hard enough to sting.  “Didn’t think you had it in you, fishfuck.  At least, not unless I had it in you first.”

“I’m just glad to see a lowwblood who knowws his fuckin’ place,” you retort.  “Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut an’ your filthy nook open.”  You press your forehead into his, teeth bared, and he presses back for a minute before suddenly giving up.

“Well, that was fun,” he says, almost cheerfully.  He reaches down into the puddle of liquid and pulls you from his body with a slight intake of breath, standing on somewhat unsteady legs and stepping down to the floor.  “I’m gonna go take a turn in the ablution block.  Suppose I should have anyway, but now I have an excuse.”

“Hey,” you begin, turning around, but he’s already out of sight, leaving you with a large puddle of genetic material, his soggy clothes, and a raging erection.  “Seriously, Sol?” you shout after him.  “Seriously?”  The only reply is a mean-spirited laugh, followed by a slamming door from the direction of Sollux’s private bathroom.  You punch the couch in frustration, then sigh.  Not much to be done about it… but you’ll be fucked if you’re cleaning up his mess. 

You stand and get dressed as well as you can; a shower sounds like a great idea right about now.  And after that, maybe you’ll give him the backup you made.  Then you consider the state of your clothes and your couch.  …No, maybe not just yet.


End file.
